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He was listening for the outraged caws of the bum—the crazier they were, the louder they cawed—
but there was nothing. One more corner and he could congratulate himself on a clean getaway.
Dan turned it.
4
That evening found him sitting at the mouth of a large stormdrain on the slope beneath the Cape Fear
Memorial Bridge. He had a room, but there was the small matter of stacked-up back rent, which he
had absolutely promised to pay as of 5 p.m. yesterday. Nor was that all. If he returned to his room, he
might be invited to visit a certain fortresslike municipal building on Bess Street, to answer questions
about a certain bar altercation. On the whole, it seemed safer to stay away.
There was a downtown shelter called Hope House (which the winos of course called Hopeless
House), but Dan had no intention of going there. You could sleep free, but if you had a bottle they’d
take it away. Wilmington was full of by-the-night flops and cheap motels where nobody gave a shit
what you drank, snorted, or injected, but why would you waste good drinking money on a bed and a
roof when the weather was warm and dry? He could worry about beds and roofs when he headed north.
Not to mention getting his few possessions out of the room on Burney Street without his landlady’s
notice.
The moon was rising over the river. The blanket was spread out behind him. Soon he would lie
down on it, pull it around him in a cocoon, and sleep. He was just high enough to be happy. The
takeoff and the climb-out had been rough, but now all that low-altitude turbulence was behind him.
He supposed he wasn’t leading what straight America would call an exemplary life, but for the time
being, all was fine. He had a bottle of Old Sun (purchased at a liquor store a prudent distance from
Golden’s Discount) and half a hero sandwich for breakfast tomorrow. The future was cloudy, but
tonight the moon was bright. All was as it should be.
(Canny)
Suddenly the kid was with him. Tommy. Right here with him. Reaching for the blow. Bruises on
his arm. Blue eyes.
(Canny)
He saw this with an excruciating clarity that had nothing to do with the shining. And more.
Deenie lying on her back, snoring. The red imitation leather wallet. The wad of food stamps with U.S.
DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE printed on them. The money. The seventy dollars. Which he
had taken.
Think about the moon. Think about how serene it looks rising over the water.
For awhile he did, but then he saw Deenie on her back, the red imitation leather wallet, the wad of
food stamps, the pitiful crumple of cash (much of it now gone). Most clearly of all he saw the kid
reaching for the blow with a hand that looked like a starfish. Blue eyes. Bruised arm.
Canny, he said.
Mama, he said.
Dan had learned the trick of measuring out his drinks; that way the booze lasted longer, the high
was mellower, and the next day’s headache lighter and more manageable. Sometimes, though, the
measuring thing went wrong. Shit happened. Like at the Milky Way. That had been more or less an
accident, but tonight, finishing the bottle in four long swallows, was on purpose. Your mind was a
blackboard. Booze was the eraser.
He lay down and pulled the stolen blanket around him. He waited for unconsciousness, and it
came, but Tommy came first. Atlanta Braves shirt. Sagging diaper. Blue eyes, bruised arm, starfish